


do you think you can tell heaven from hell?

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gen, Hallucinations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, past suicidal ideation, vent - Freeform, wilbur needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: he’s better now.isn’t he?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	do you think you can tell heaven from hell?

**Author's Note:**

> this is in no way an assumption about Wilbur’s mental health, I just needed to vent.

It could be so much worse.

He lays on the floor next to his bed, stretched out where guitars and books would stop him on the bed itself. It’s not particularly comfy, but he can’t quite manage to get comfy at the moment. Every part of him throbs intermittently with a dull ache without a discernible cause.

He’s tired, what has it been, two days? It’s nothing, not when he has memories of a woman screaming and doorways that are silent and hostile and walls that weep and sing a melody he could never replicate. The night owl ring tone makes him want to throw up now, too many times being jolted out of barely an hour’s sleep to its four am wailing. He can only coax himself into something resembling rest listening to ‘mock the week’ compilations.

He’s exhausted, still, and it shows in the way his words are slipping out of his grasp like tantalus’s fruit. The story is the root of the word; the fruit and water so tantalisingly close. His phone is so near, he can ask for help, doesn’t have to say anything, just let them talk and act ok. He won’t be able to speak properly, and that’s never good when words are your first and last line of defence.

He could call anyone, could listen to Techno or Tubbo talk about something in detail and feel their excitement even if he understands very little of it. He could call Tommy and say he’s too tired to talk and he’ll go gentle on him but still rib him as usual. He could call Philza and ask for help. He could ask for help.

He won’t.

Because he was doing better, is doing better. He’s not even been near a bridge for four months for anything besides necessity. He needs bringing back to something approaching reality maybe once every few week.

The scars stick now, even though they’re shallower. He never went for his wrists, and now lines mar the inside and outside of his upper arms, grooves he can feel even if they can’t be seen. He uses plasters and savlon, keeps them clean and doesn’t just leave them to weep with slight infection through white school t-shirts.

It could be so much worse.

Suffering isn’t comparable, isn’t a competition, the rational part of his brain supplies before it cuts itself off with the rationalisation that the only person he’s competing with is himself. It’s the kind of thought that the rest of his brain needs at least two shots to comprehend. That’s probably not advisable given all he can remember drinking in the last few days is coffee and alcohol and coffee mixed with alcohol, to varying degrees of success. He needs to drink water.

And he will, once it stops being so hard to pick himself up off the floor.

Not as hard as...

Stop. Not a word.

The room is spinning. That’s not good, right?

No. Neither is the nosedive this narrative took. Write with better structure.

He’s vaguely aware of his mind sliding into something different.

It could be so much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> if you guys read this just know I’m safe and I hope you guys are too.


End file.
